


Cut my teeth on your love

by dreams_for_spring



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And only now he's willing to act on it, Cunnilingus, Dark Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Headcanon that he's always had a thing for Sansa, Ignores show canon, In that he's come back caring a little less about duty and honour, Mutual Pining, Picks up from end of ADWD, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sansa never married Ramsay, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreams_for_spring/pseuds/dreams_for_spring
Summary: The horse pads in softly over freshly fallen snow, making not a sound. Yet, even if it did, Jon would not have heard it, for he is enraptured by the sight of her; a spectre of his past, a dream made flesh.He knows that he shouldn’t, knows that he is the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and that there are certain customs to which he must abide.He knows these things very well, but he finds he does not care.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 44
Kudos: 369





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So as it turns out I need an outlet for my smut, and my current WIP has no smut (yet), and well this happened. I’m not even gonna apologize for the tropes, really just needed an excuse to get this out of my system.
> 
> Here's part 1. Part 2 is almost finished being written, and I'll drop it as soon as I'm done editing =D

It is a cold, late fall day as Jon stalks his way along the Wall, Ghost padding along in his wake. Long ago, the cold would bore into him, icy tendrils that bit into his skin, lingering for hours after he would return to the warmth of Castle Black. Now though, he feels nothing, and he could just as easily take the cold or the warmth of the hall. At least here there are no lingering stares or wary glances. Whatever happened while he was gone, whatever happened in those three days has changed so many things he has lost count.

It’s in the way his men now walk round him with a ten-foot berth, in the way the red woman, Melisandre, looks at him as though he were a god. It’s in the way that he cut down a dozen men in the course of a day, sentenced them all to death by his hand, by his sword.

He feels the change too, because long ago he would have taken no joy in their beheadings, would have wished it over sooner. Now though, he found himself wishing that Longclaw were just a little more dull, that perhaps he could have cut the head of Bowen Marsh with two cuts rather than just one. It’s not right, not human, not natural – but some nights he dreams of the pool of blood their bodies left behind, and tastes it in his mouth, thick and metallic on the tongue of Ghost.

That too has changed. Back when he was with the Wildlings, he had tried to deny his nature, deny he was a Warg. Now, he is closer to Ghost than Orell was with his eagle. They step together in time, and most nights he slips into Ghost’s skin and they share it together. There is a certain peace that he can only find within Ghost, a settled ease he fears he’ll never feel in his own skin again. In his own skin, he feels all the things he denied himself in life, come back a hundred-fold. There is a hunger that itches and screams and aches within its confines, telling him to do all the things he knew he never could.

So when Ghost picks up the scent of something familiar from another life, Jon feels it before Ghost even becomes aware of it, and he knows what it means. His own nostrils flare, picking up the scent. It’s the smell of roses and lemons and summer snows. The smell of Winterfell and the godswood, and playing come-into-my-castle. It’s Naerys come again, and he is as doomed as Aemon.

He is halfway down the lift on the Wall when he spots the horse, white as the snow around it, and the girl sitting atop it, bundled up in grey wool blankets. Behind her strides a great destrier, with the largest woman he has ever laid eyes upon seated atop it. But none of that matters – nothing matters – compared to the girl in grey. She is as Melisandre envisioned, except the wrong sister, the wrong Stark has come to seek refuge with him.

He feels a sick lurch in the pit of his stomach because she shouldn’t be here; not now, not after everything that has happened. It can’t be her here after all this time, he was supposed to never see her again. And yet here she is, arriving as though the gods have answered his depraved prayers.

He swallows hard and watches delicate hands curve round the hood, pulling it down to reveal dark matted hair, dull as the ground upon which he wishes he were now. He hears a low rumble and grinding whine deep in his chest, unsure if it has come from himself or from Ghost, whose nostrils are flaring wide.

“It’s her,” Jon whispers, running his hands through Ghost’s fur. “She’s just changed her hair is all. It’s still her.”

 _And she shouldn’t be here_ , he thinks. She doesn’t know what he’s become, what he thinks of, dreams of late at night when he can’t sleep. Even if bastards are more lecherous than other men, he is still the most lecherous man to ever live. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, and that only sends his mind to fire, makes him ache for the quiet simplicity of Ghost’s mind.

The closer she gets to the castle, the more her scent invades his nostrils until it’s all he can smell, and all he can think of is washing the darkness from her hair, letting the auburn shine through as it should. This right now is an abomination that must be set right, and gods but would he be happy to help. His fingers curl round the cold iron of the lift cage and he clenches it tightly, wishing he were down there now, every muscle and bone aching to hold her in his arms.

It’s then that she looks up from her mount, up to the cage. She sees him and Ghost, and he gazes into eyes bluer than anything he has seen in years. Breath stalls in his lungs, and the cage shakes and heaves and rattles as it slowly settles to the ground inside the castle.

“Raise the gates,” he bellows out with a voice that begs no question. Black brothers scatter like the crows they are and move to raise the gate.

The horse pads in softly over the freshly fallen snow, making not a sound. Yet, even if it did, Jon would not have heard it, for he is enraptured by the sight of her, a spectre of his past, a dream made flesh. 

She looks so frail and small tucked under so many blankets, and the dark colour her hair has been dyed only makes her skin look even more pale than it always has. If it were milkglass before, now it is the very snow upon which her feet fall as she dismounts.

He knows that he shouldn’t, knows that he is the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, and that there are certain customs to which he must abide.

He knows these things very well, but he finds he does not care.

He runs forward as fast as his legs will take him, his black furs whipping behind him in the wind, his leathers stiff from the cold and unyielding to his long strides. But he continues at his pace until he reaches her. He sees the thin stream of frozen tears on each of her cheeks, the dirt and mud caked into her soft skin, and before he can think he has pulled her up in his arms, holding her tight to his body.

Her own arms rise up round his shoulders, pulling him in tight, holding her body flush to his as he spins her round. She is light as a child, and no warmth comes from her body at all. How long have they been riding here? From where did they come? The last Jon had heard, she had been married to the imp, and he had thought her lost to him forever – to a man that he had once trusted. It’s hard to know if that’s what hurt most; that she was wedded and bedded by a man that he once called friend, or that it could never have been him.

But it’s those very treacherous thoughts that build and rise up within him like a wave as he holds her in his arms, as her scent permeates every part of him, marking his soul with sin. He moves just slightly away to look her in the face, still holding her tight in her arms. The smile that she gives him is like the summer sun, and it’s melting his resolve, tearing the walls inside himself down.

“I’ve missed you so much Jon,” she whispers, and her voice is a siren song. She’s a gift from the gods, an offering he doesn’t deserve.

 _If she knew what you’re thinking right now, she’d run back from whence she came_ , he thinks, trying to tame his wandering mind. He places her back down on the ground, but before he can pull away she places a small kiss to his cheek, soft lips meeting his wind-weathered skin. How long has it been since he’s known a woman’s touch? It rushes through his body as though he is a wick set aflame, and he wants to take her own face in his hands and show her how she really makes him feel – but he can’t. Not here, not now, not ever.

 _Half-sister_ , a quiet voice reminds him, from the recesses of his mind. _She’s your half-sister, and you are a monster, and doubly so for the things that you are thinking right now_.

And it’s true, he is thinking terrible things. Of carrying her up to his chambers and bathing her til she’s scrubbed new and clean, of taking her to his bed and warming her with his body, of feeding her dark rye bread and honey, and licking the stickiness from her skin…

He feels his body begin to react from his own thoughts, and he moves a step backward as an attempt at propriety.

“Let me escort you to the guest chambers,” he says with a voice so strained it sounds foreign to his ears.

* * *

The guest chambers sit only one floor below him in the Lord Commander’s tower, and the knowledge that she is so close to him is almost unbearable. He takes to prowling his chambers most nights, and when that doesn’t work he prowls the Wall, waiting for any sign of an attack by the Others. He has fortified the Wall with Wildlings, but even still he knows the end is near. He can feel it in his bones.

He has insisted that Sansa keeps a distance from his men, and allows her to see only Brienne, Melisandre, and his steward Satin. Even Satin he sometimes gives a wary glare, as though he is a bloody wolf staking claim to his territory. But that thought is madness; he is not a wolf, not truly, and Sansa is nothing more than his half-sister whom he needs to protect. She is small and frail, and has suffered far too much already – she will not suffer here. He will not even allow her to dine with his men, can’t even stand the idea of their wandering eyes on her body. He doesn’t put words to the thoughts that linger in his mind, but if he could they’d scream out that even though she is not his, he cannot allow her to be another’s either.

As time passes, she grows weary of Brienne and begins to invite Jon to dinner in her chambers. He knows he should refuse – it would be the gallant thing to do – but surely there is nothing wrong with family dining together? Her chambers are large, and they sit round a table near the hearth. It’s far enough away from the bed that he only glances at it when his mind becomes especially desperate.

Dinners stretch out long into the evenings, and they reminisce of the old days at Winterfell; of Bran climbing higher than the ravens’ rookery, of how Father would sit by the Heart Tree and clean Ice for hours at end. This is easier than speaking of everything that has happened since then. When it comes to that, Jon doesn’t know where he’d begin, and he isn’t sure he wants to hear what Sansa’s suffered through either. He’s seen the way she flinches from loud noises, the wary glances she gives each and every man, and it makes his blood boil and his jaw clench.

He fears that if she tells him what happened in King’s Landing and what happened with Littlefinger in the Vale, he will ride down there on his own and destroy them all with fire and fury, and drink of their life’s blood like the animal he knows he’s become.

Over their nights together, Sansa’s hair begins to lighten and regain its sheen. Her cheeks begin to look just a little less gaunt, and some nights when she drinks too much wine they take on a lovely rosy hue, and he finds he cannot pull his gaze away from them. He watches her eyes dart from his own down to her plate, then back up to his lips, and he finds himself wishing to know what it is she thinks of when she does this.

He pours her more wine and watches the flush crawl down her cheeks to the elegant lines of her throat, rosy pink skin pulled tight over bones and muscle that ripple under her skin as she swallows. He longs to lick and nip at the tight skin, to mark her as his own.

Sometimes he wonders if she knows the terrible things he thinks. Other times, he lets himself entertain the thought that maybe she thinks them too. On those nights, he takes himself in hand and spills with the ghost of her name on his tongue. 

As time passes, she slowly tells him all her secrets and all the betrayals that she has suffered. The night she tells him of her wedding night to Tyrion, she cries into his jerkin, and he holds her to him so tight he feels the imprint of her body against him for the rest of the night. He vows to her that no man shall ever touch her again lest she wishes it, and at those words she only digs her face into his jerkin harder, burying herself underneath his skin and into his soul.

 _I am damned_ , he thinks, as he holds his half-sister in his arms, all the while wondering whether her words might mean that she remains a maiden.

In time, he tells her of his life too, though it is harder to explain what the red woman has done. He suffices to strip off his leathers and undertunic, revealing his bare chest to her. He knows that he shouldn’t, but it’s the easiest way to explain, and when her eyes graze over the wicked open gashes that remain in his skin, he sees the realization dawn upon her.

“Are you dead?” She asks, her hand reaching out to touch the wounds. He pulls away harshly before her skin can touch his. If he allows that, he’s not sure he can ever go back.

“More dead than some, less than others.”

His words hang heavy in the air, and they both know of what he speaks; of the silent death that lurks just on the other side of the wall. Sometimes they hear them late at night, calls like the splitting and grinding of ice on a lake that echo loudly off the Wall.

On those nights, Sansa asks him to stay until she can barely keep her eyes open, and even then sometimes he lingers longer, watching over her as she sleeps.

* * *

They come in the night, as they always do, and they bring with them a storm that howls and shrieks through Castle Black. The winds are so strong that the lift does not work, and the men must climb the Wall by the stairs. One man falls to his death from the Wall, carried away by the wind to the other side.

He is the only causality of the attack. One man amongst so many. Yet, with his death comes a sort of somber quiet that hangs over Castle Black. They hold a funeral for him, but the pyre is empty, just like so many of the faces that Jon looks upon as they stand round it.

It’s the knowledge that this attack was just a test that scares them all so much, he thinks, for he cannot think of anything else. This is just the beginning, and the worst is yet to come.

They are all sentenced to stay here and hold the Wall, and he’s no longer certain they can.

Sansa stands beside him, her small hand clasping his own. When it comes time for him to speak, to give reassurance to his men, she squeezes his hand softly, and it melts the ice from his body. It’s then that he realizes he is lost without her; that if she ever leaves him, he will well and truly die, and stay that way this time.

Later that evening as they take their supper in her chambers, Jon senses fear and apprehension in Sansa, her movements seem stiff and forced.

“What’s wrong?” He asks softly, taking a large gulp of acrid wine. They’re onto the last of the stores, and all that is left is the old Northern wine – strong and bitter and heavy on the tongue.

“What’s wrong?” She echoes, sipping her own. She has taken to adding honey to it to sweeten the bitter metallic taste of it, and he can smell the sweetness on her breath. “I’m scared, Jon. For us, for you.”

“The Wall protects itself,” he responds almost automatically, parroting the words of every Lord Commander before him.

“And who protects you, who protects us?”

“I protect you, and Ghost protects me,” he replies simply, as Ghost lets out a contented yawn, sprawled out by the fire. “If you wish, you could sleep in my chambers, and I could take these. That way if we hear anything amiss, you’ll be safe above us and we can better protect you.”

She bites at that beautiful, soft lip again, taking it into her mouth. Jon watches, entranced, as she works through her fear in front of him. He has grown to love all the small things she does in these moments, when no words need to be said. He loves the way she bites her lip, the way her hands run down her skirts smoothing out their wrinkles. He loves the way she says his name, like he is something more than he is. He lets himself believe it means more than he knows it does, lets himself think that she says the one singular syllable with the same adoration he gives her two.

More than anything else though, he wants to make her safe and content, wishes to see the healthy flush of wine and happiness on her cheeks once more – and he’d give anything to get that back. So when the stilted words leave her mouth, he finds he cannot deny her. When she asks for him to stay with her so she may sleep safely, he finds himself saying yes, even when he knows he shouldn’t.

They walk up the stairs to his chambers together, and he curses himself for the lecherous thoughts that once more overtake him. It has been so long since he was overcome by them that they consume him, take him by surprise. He finds himself entranced by the sway of her hips as she climbs the stairs and tries in vain to look away.

When she watches him throw a fur upon the floor by the foot of her bed, he watches her eyebrows furrow.

“If you sleep there,” she asks, “where will Ghost sleep?”

“By the door, to keep you safe,” he replies gruffly, wondering how he can pretend that a wooden floor and a bear pelt is any semblance of comfort to his tired body.

“I thought you said _you_ would protect me.”

He looks up from his makeshift bed to her, standing there in nothing but a thick woolen shift. It hides her curves and her body almost the same as a dress, yet it’s the knowing that there is nothing else beneath, save for her smallclothes that sets his blood to flame. It isn’t decent for her to be here, not like this, not in any way. The men, his men, will surely talk, but he cannot bring himself to deny her anything.

“Aye, would you have _me_ sleep by the door then?” He asks dryly, wondering if there is anything more of himself that he can give her. The problem is – and he knows it too – he’d give her every drop of blood in his body just to make her smile. He’d do anything for her; slaughter all the beasts who’ve hurt her, tear down cities and kingdoms, and the whole damned realm – just to see her smile.

She looks from him to Ghost, from the door to the fur that he has laid out at the foot of the bed, and again she takes her lip into her mouth, chewing delicately upon it. Its maddening and delightful and he can feel himself stiffen against his will. He wonders if she knows he’d give anything to be her teeth right now; to sink lightly into the meat of her lip and hear her moan out in pleasure.

Would she taste as sweet as the honeyed wine she has taken to drink? Or would she take on it’s heavy metallic cast? _Blood and_ _honey, honey and blood,_ and it’s all he can think of until he realizes she has spoken, and he hasn’t heard a single word she has said.

“Jon?” She asks, confused. Her head is tilted slightly, her cheeks are aflame, and the redness is spreading delightfully down her neck.

“I uh – I’m sorry Sansa, I didn’t hear you,” he replies dimly, and her cheeks burn ever brighter.

“I – it’s very cold in here.” Her arms wrap round her thin frame, hugging the wool tight to her body. Does she know that he is an animal now, held together only by a thread, by a singular string?

“I’ll add more wood to the fire,” he says gruffly, turning away. He adds three more logs to the fire and stokes it, before pulling the stiff leather jerkin from his chest.

He hears the rustle of Sansa getting into the bed and pulls the remaining leathers from his chest and legs, til he is dressed only in his undertunic. He knows not to think such terrible thoughts, but it’s as though a pair of eyes watch every movement of him undressing, tracing the lines of his body by the fire.

He allows himself to fall asleep hard to the thought, wondering desperately if he’ll ever feel relief again.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the coldest night at the Wall yet, and no matter how many logs Jon puts on the fire, he still hears Sansa’s teeth chattering as she sits in his chamber perched on a high-backed chair by the fire.

It is the coldest night at the Wall yet, and no matter how many logs Jon puts on the fire, he still hears Sansa’s teeth chattering as she sits in his chamber perched on a high-backed chair by the fire. Even though she has gained weight since coming to the Wall, she is still a slight thing, and she never dresses warmly enough. The Freefolk women have offered her thicker dresses and woolen breeches, but she refuses them all.

It’s almost as though she prefers to sit here sipping on honeyed wine, chattering away in his chambers, giving him looks that make him want to forget that they once called the same castle home. And the worst part of it all is that the later it gets in the evening, the more often he finds himself looking over to her, only to see her looking right back.

“Sansa,” he nearly growls, and she looks up at him with those innocent blue eyes that remind him of sunny skies such as he hasn’t seen in years.

“Is something wrong?”

 _Everything is wrong_ , he thinks, fingernails digging deep into the flesh of his thigh as he tries not to think of all the things he cannot think about her. “You need to start dressing warmer.”

She frowns at his words, and her gaze shifts from him to the fire. She’s been here for months, been sleeping in his chambers for over a week now, and he feels as though he is liable to tear his own skin off if they keep going on like this.

“Can’t we just stay in here til spring comes?” She asks, with the glint of a sad smile on her face. But they both know that before spring comes, so too will the Others; and when they come neither this tower, nor his chambers will be safe for her.

“You need to go outside, you need to spend some time with the Freefolk women... My men are beginning to talk.”

Her lips quirk upwards in amusement at his words, though he finds nothing amusing about the predicament. “Oh? What do they say?”

"It's not important," he mumbles, standing up to stoke the fire, desperate to get away from the smile that has settled on her face.

In truth, they say things that make his whole body flush warm. They say that he has taken his half-sister to bed. They say she is with child, and that is why she refuses to leave, because of embarrassment at her delicate state. But he cannot say those words to her; even if they make him feel awful, wonderful things he knows they never should. A babe, a family – no these are things he gave up on so long ago. He’s no longer sure he could if he even tried, not with what he is now.

When he turns back, he sees that Sansa has stood up and is attempting to unlace the bodice of her dress. 

“What are you doing?” He almost hisses, looking quickly away.

She has taken to a sort of familiarity lately that many would call improper, but he has told himself it’s simply that she feels comfortable with him after years of so much suffering. But this - this undressing in front of him before bed - is more than he can stand to bear. It’s one thing to see her in a thick woolen shift and know that there should be a dress over top of it, and quite another to watch that dress be taken off in front of him. 

“The laces got tied in a knot, and I cannot undo it,” she whines in explanation. Jon turns back round slowly to watch delicate fingers scraping weakly against a knot in the laces. "Can you help take the knot out?”

It’s as though the gods have deemed now the moment to test him.

He considers what his punishment for failing them could be - wonders if it's enough to make it all worth it - as his fingers drift along the laces, opening them up to reveal the shift underneath. He allows his fingers to linger on the rough fabric, tracing soft swirls along it. He knows he should pull away, but he doesn’t, and neither does she.

Instead, she leans into his touch and he hears the rumble of a hum low in her throat, setting his mind to think all manner of desperate, carnal things. He imagines pushing her to the furs that lay on the ground and taking her like a wolf, of carrying her to the bed that has slowly become hers and making it theirs, of eating every meal off her body until the end of time, for nothing could ever taste sweeter than her.

“Sansa,” he groans low in his throat. It’s a warning and a promise that if she does not move away, then neither will he. He wonders if she knows the way his body sings at the thought of claiming her as his own.

The laces loosen all the way down her back and the bodice falls to the floor, amidst a sea of unending skirts. This is a dream, and he is asleep, for surely she cannot be standing here like this before him. Yet her hand reaches out and touches his own, real as anything he has ever felt, and in an instant the string that has been holding him sane breaks, his resolve evaporating like water above a flame.

His mouth crashes hard against her own, and it’s everything that he has imagined and more. She is soft and warm against him, and when he nips at that lower lip that has taunted him all these months, she lets out the softest whine of a moan that rolls against him.

He lets his tongue dart out to explore her mouth, and finds she tastes of neither honey nor blood, but something delightfully in between. He takes his time memorizing the taste of her tongue, sucking and biting and relishing in her mewls. Her hands come round to his jerkin, pulling him closer by the ties of it, and he is happy to oblige. Deft fingers untie his clothes, making him wonder how she struggled so hard just a minute ago with her own, before he decides to not dwell on such thoughts and focus instead on slowly guiding them to the bed.

He pulls the jerkin and tunic from his body til he is dressed only in an undertunic and his breeches, and finally it’s as though the itch under his skin has begun to quiet, replaced by a sweet tingle from the feeling of her fingers trailing down his chest, landing at the top of his breeches.

“Do you often wear your breeches to bed?” she asks, with more than a hint of mirth.

His body responds to her fingers so close to his manhood, and words escape his lips harsh and hoarse, nearly unrecognizable as his own. “Is that what we’re doing? Going to bed?"

“Mmmm,” she hums, “I suppose in a way, yes.”

“And in another way?” He bites back, fingers tracing the stitches on the sides of her shift. 

“Well, I suppose in every way, in all manner of ways,” she replies cryptically, and her eyes dart up to meet his own, dark and glinting in the firelight. Her lips are bright red and swollen from their kissing, hair mussed and in disarray. Lying like this - with skin pale as the bark of a Weirwood and hair as blood red as their leaves - she is more a goddess than any he has ever known.

In another life he would have waited, would have told himself that this was wrong; but now her words are more than enough permission, and his fingers go to the stitches that he has just traced. Strong hands pull the seams apart, revealing an endless expanse of pale skin marred only by white silk smallclothes, tied up on the sides with small, neat blue bows.

He is tempted to rip them from her body now, but decides to save that for later. His head dips down and he begins to softly kiss along her collarbone and down her breastbone.

“How long,” he says roughly, between kisses that linger and leave little marks on her skin.

“How long?” she echoes, though they both know very well what he means.

“How long have you known, and felt the same?”

His kisses become more insistent as he works his way down her stomach to the apex of her sex, hidden carefully under those smooth, silk smallclothes, with those damnable blue bows. He kisses her through the silk, soaking through the material until he can taste her on his tongue. She’s sweet as honey, and he knows that he is a man drowned; there will be no saving his soul after tonight.

“When we sat in my chambers, and you told me what happened to you the night of the mutiny. I knew then why I wanted so badly to feel your skin against mine, and why you pulled away.”

Her fingernails dig into his scalp, pushing him harder against her sex, and he cannot hold himself back any longer. He tears the fabric from her, revealing a small thatch of bright auburn curls, and below it the folds of her sex glisten in the dancing light of the fire.

“Aye,” he replies, letting his fingers trace the folds, gathering the wetness. “If you’d touched me, I’d have taken you there and then.” She cries out loudly as he thrusts a single finger into her, enraptured by the tightness of it, by the way she pulls and keens into him.

Her voice has been replaced by a low, slow moan, like a prayer on the tip of her tongue. He thrusts another finger in, revelling in the way she squirms and curls her toes underneath him. Her mouth is half open and her hair is strewn all over the furs of the bed, and in this moment he knows that whatever they were before is a shadow of what they are now.

But still a part of him is sure that she will push him away, that she will call him as he is; a depraved animal, unfit for life anywhere but the Wall.

“Sans –“ He begins to form the words, to ask if he should stop, but she cuts him off with a forceful kiss, with hungry hands that wander down his undertunic, tugging at the fabric. He leans into her touch as she skims along the hard planes and curves of his stomach and chest. He curls his fingers forward within her just so til she cries out once more, fingernails digging tightly through his shirt into the skin of his chest, leaving marks of her own on him. 

The remainder of his and her smallclothes fall to the floor in a heap, half-ripped and torn from their eagerness. He wonders if it would be easier to simply burn them after, rather than try to explain how they became so torn; but the thought leaves his mind as he finally gazes upon her, all of her, for the first time.

This time when his fingers enter her, he is less patient, more forceful, and he finds her even wetter than before. She hums appreciatively, and its enough to make him need to kiss her, worship her, find that sweet spot that will bring her the greatest pleasure. His tongue works it’s way along her folds and up to her centre with long, slow licks that cause her to cry out in a mixture of alarm and pleasure, her hips bucking up against his face. She lifts her head to look down at him, and gods but she is more lovely like this than ever before; debauched and lain bare, with his fingers inside her.

Her body begins to flutter around him, and now he is grinding into her in time with the thrusts of his fingers. She peaks with a loud cry and a sweet tightening of her body around him. The sight is nearly enough to make him spill his seed on her thigh, but he resists, blood singing in his ears as he does. 

He comes back up pressing soft kisses to her thighs, her stomach, and her breasts, taking in each nipple in turn and sucking on them lightly as he does.

“Can we do that again?” She breathes out with a smile, moving to caress his jaw over his rough, close-cut beard. 

“Aye,” he says with a soft grin, “whenever you wish.”

Their kisses are long and hard, as he relishes the feel of her fingers drifting to trace the cords of muscle on his back, letting his length sit heavy against her stomach.

“And what of you? Is this how a man _goes to bed_ as well?” 

“Not quite, but I could show you that too."

He swallows her assent with his mouth, and before he can think better of himself he is guiding his cock to her entrance and easing himself in slowly. She is so tight and so hot that it feels as though she is branding him, making him hers, instead of the other way round.

She winces only once, when he breaks her maidenhead, and it sends a wicked thrill through him even though he knows it shouldn’t. She was meant to marry a prince or a lord, not to be his, and he shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing with her right now. When he was younger, he dreamt of giving her winter roses from the glass gardens, of serenading her with songs. He has done none of those things, and he doesn’t deserve her.

It’s enough to make him still inside her guiltily, as he looks upon the elegant arch of her neck, bright red lips half-open in a mix of pleasure and pain.

“I’m sorry, I should stop.”

He moves to pull away from her, but her arms pull him back tightly. “Is it so wrong that this feels good?” She whispers, and he feels his blood singing in his ears once more.

“No, sweet girl,” he groans, tilting down to kiss and nip at her neck. Her words encourage him, and he thrusts harder than before as the strain in her body relaxes, and she becomes accustomed to him inside her.

The small pinprick of pain turns to pleasure on her face and he sets himself to memorize this moment; every crinkle in the corners of her eyes as they clench tight, the imprints left behind as she bites her lip, the way her cheeks flush as she chases her own pleasure. 

Silken legs wrap round his hips, and he feels himself sink deeper inside her, causing him to groan. With his final thrusts inside her, he feels her peak around him too, and it’s more than he can bear. He spills inside her, and it's his final claim to her. He can’t seem to deny either of them that pleasure, and some dark part of him hopes that his seed takes root.

Falling to her side, breathless, he pulls her tightly into his arms. Leaning over, he places soft kisses atop the marks on her neck, smiling as he does. She is his now, as he never dared to even dream. But that thought lingers at him, eating away at the joy he should be feeling.

“Why?” He asks quietly, unable to bear the unknown for any longer.

“Why what?” Though he can’t see, he knows she’s speaking through a smile.

“Why me? Why now?”

“Most men think themselves to be the sun and stars, god’s gift to the realm. But I know you well enough to know you think the opposite of yourself, and to know that you are everything you think you aren’t. You are one of the only good men I've ever known, Jon.” She places a soft kiss to his lips, and all the dark thoughts in his mind have stilled to silence.

“As for why now,” she continues, with a sadder look on her face, “I don’t know how much time we have left before –“ the rest of her sentence stalls on her lips, but he knows what it would be. The Others press closer with each passing day, and soon he'll have to send her south to what's left of Winterfell, which now sits in the hands of Stannis Baratheon.

With a pang of sadness, Jon knows now that when she goes, he will stay behind and hold the Wall.

"And what of you," she asks, "why me?"

He pulls her close to him, her face tight in the crook of his neck. “It's always been you, since even before I knew what love was. You’re mine,” he whispers softly, “As I am yours, and I will protect you, always.”

Sansa giggles softly and stretches out in his arms, leaving him to relish the touch of her skin against his body. “That’s not how the vows go,” she murmurs sleepily. “It’s ‘I am yours and you are mine’, when you wish to be wed.”

Jon presses a kiss to the top of her head, wishing to never let her go.

“Aye then. I am yours, and you are mine.”

He can hear the slow, steady sounds of her breathing and knows that she is drifting off to sleep; but even still, he hears her repeat the words back to him, as softly as the songs she used to sing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, hope that wasn't too much. I swear I tried to curb my own verbosity and cut over 500 words, even if it doesn't look like it!


End file.
